


Little Butterflies

by Kerowyn6



Series: Catherine d'Albon Is Sad and Gay [2]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Angst, Multi, This is unedited and unread-over, this is the fic saved on my google docs as 'catherine d'albon is sad and gay', what a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6
Summary: Both of the Crawfords, she thinks, are unfairly attractive.





	Little Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> This is just... a disaster. I don't even know how to defend myself.

Catherine wants to kiss her. 

Philippa Crawford is in front of her, laughing at something Catherine said, something that she has already forgotten. The two most dangerous people Catherine knows are in front her, their mouths wide, their eyes bright, their hair mussed, and Catherine wants nothing so badly as to lean forward and kiss Philippa Crawford. 

She hates that she thinks of Philippa in these ways-- as a Crawford, as someone she could love again, as a person here now. Some part of her hates Philippa, too, and the man sitting next to her, and their twin smiles. Their hands, casually interlocked; their legs, touching; their feet, bumping hers; their eyes, cold and hard and laughing. It astounds Catherine that they are not laughing at her but with her. It is a strange place of power she is in, to have been loved by Philippa and Francis Crawford and to have escaped mostly intact. 

She sees it in Philippa’s eyes. When she thinks of Philippa--which is a more frequent occurrence than she is altogether comfortable with-- she thinks of the capable, kind, courtly woman she knew in 1558. It took her altogether by surprise when Archie Abernathy, who dropped by to see her once on route to business at Sevigny, made a passing reference to midnight chases and the Crawford affinity for knives. Now, with Philippa in front of her and dressed to the nines in the latest in pageboy fashion, it is difficult to see the put-together girl she knew, and much easier to see the woman who slits thugs’ throats as deftly as her husband. And it is in the eyes of this Philippa that she sees-- well, not fear, perhaps, but a recognition. Catherine beat the Crawfords by stepping away. If there is one thing that they are not used to, it is a person who has escaped their thrall.

For Francis Crawford, she observes, this is a relief. It would have been so easy for her to hate him-- the way he pins people up like butterflies, watches them squirm, watches them die. But she has concluded that the dying is less out of his own cruelty and more because he never learned how to take out the pins. That is his saving grace, why she can bare to sit across from him. It’s obvious to her now, with the benefit of hindsight and six years’ distance, that he takes the pins from every dead butterfly and turns them on himself. To have a creature that took the pins out itself must feel like a divine miracle. 

Her eyes drift down to Philippa’s lips again. Both of the Crawfords, she thinks, are unfairly attractive. 

“Catherine?” asks Philippa, leaning forward slightly. One wisp of brown hair has escaped her cap. “Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” she says, and then wonders briefly about being honest. She blames the alcohol for the thought even crossing her mind. “Well, perhaps. I suppose the talk of Parisian politics might have left me teetering towards the depressive.”  
“The urge to escape can be overwhelming,” says Francis wryly. Catherine thinks he is trying to be comforting. He’s not very good at it. Music leaves her with a bitter taste in her mouth, and the two of them are to blame. It might not have been music he was talking about, and that would be worse. 

Catherine gives him a small smile in thanks for the effort. “I sometimes feel like the world is falling apart, and the Second Coming is just around the corner. Then I read Gildas again and remember that a constant sense of impending catastrophe is an inherent aspect of the human condition.”

“Perhaps,” says Philippa, tapping her fingers again her mug, “the Second Coming passed by a long time ago, and we are the ones who got left behind.” Her cheeks are slightly flushed. From the wine, from the heat, from something else, perhaps. 

“Don’t be blasphemous,” Catherine says easily. “This isn’t Gehenna. Unless there is a lake of fire somewhere in the Scottish highlands we continentals haven’t been made aware of?”

“Scotland has worse things than lakes of fire.” Francis’ voice is soft, but not yet past the line in the sand. This is, for now, a civil conversation. Catherine is somewhat touched that the Count of Lymond and Sevigny has not interrupted their evening. She supposes she has Philippa to thank for that. 

“Don’t be cryptic,” says Philippa, elbowing him. It’s an odd thing to watch, that casual physicality. Catherine remembers a time when neither would have dared to so much as brush fingers. It could have been her, she thinks. If she had married Francis Crawford, and Philippa had married Austin Grey, would they have been happy enough? Could Francis have stomached being a wife to her in the ways that the Crown would have mandated? She doesn’t know. She thinks, perhaps, that Philippa would have drifted back to the two of them regardless. The French court is, after all, known for licence. 

Austin Grey was never a Frenchman. 

Catherine blinks several times to rid herself of this vision, some strange glimpse of another life and another death. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Philippa looking mildly concerned. She pushes the pitcher toward Catherine. “Have another drink.” 

“Do,” says Francis, looking at her with eyebrows raised and eyelashes lowered. “I’m sure it shall improve someone’s night.”

Sometimes, of course, Francis Crawford is patently cruel. Catherine pours herself a finger of wine and then waters it down. “I’m having quite a good night already, thank you,” she says, and scoots her chair in. “How is Mr. Blyth?”

“He’s taken to writing,” says Philippa. “A memoir of his time with St. Mary’s. He won’t let anyone but Kate and Adam read it.”

“Kate,” says Francis, “is too kind for her own good. Anything Jerott writes should be summarily burned at annual ritualistic ceremonies dedicated to the rational mind.” 

“I thought you hadn’t read it?”

“I said he forbade us from reading it,” says Philippa.

“Not,” follows up Francis, “that we haven’t read it.”

Their eyes hold twin glints of mischief. They look a right pair: Philippa in her courier outfit, leaning forward, her fingers just touching Catherine’s, her mouth an amused line; Francis in a somber gray doublet, lounging back in his seat, his sharp white teeth showing slightly. 

“He never struck me as what one might call an artistic type,” Catherine says delicately. Francis snorts.

“God, I’ve missed you, Catherine.” The words seem to tumble out of Philippa suddenly, all in a rush. “You must come visit.” 

She is a picture, truly, all tousled and heretical. And if anything is an invitation, this is. “I can’t,” Catherine says regretfully. 

“What, is it the exile? You needn’t worry. Francis is an expert at discretion.”

That, Catherine is not so sure of. There are still stories of his first visit to the Court, still lords and ladies who blush slightly at his name. One of Catherine’s most embarrassing memories is of being subtly informed that both of her parents had known her fiancé in a more biblical sense than she ever had. “It’s not the exile.”

They switch: Philippa sits back against the wall at the exact same time that Francis leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. The thought crosses her mind suddenly, absurd and hilarious, that they must be a terrible menace at dinner parties. Surely they revel in their ability to unnerve-- their uncanny mental cohabitation, their synchronized movements. Is this how they have accustomed themselves to domestic life? By shocking the gentry? Catherine cannot imagine that either would be prepared for retirement at their age. Then again, each has lived far more than any person could ever wish for. 

“Well, Lancelot,” says Francis, and his eyes are more sad than anything else, “you’ve gone and put your foot in it, haven’t you?”

Philippa takes a moody swig of her wine. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Catherine and Francis obey her. She thinks there is nothing in the world she would deny Philippa, save her heart. Irritating, that she watched Francis tread the same paths-- the utter, all-consuming fear that loving Philippa Somerville would leave someone broken and bloodied. It used to be that Monsieur le Comte of Lymond and Sevigny was terrified for that bright, spirited young woman he had known since she was ten. Catherine, here and now, is scared for no one but herself. 

They follow her through the chill morning air and the winding closes of Edinburgh. She seems to have a destination in mind. They walk, briskly, in silence. Finally Philippa stops in front of a narrow shop denoted “Some Bookes” by a sign hanging about the door. She kneels down on the pavement and roots around briefly for something in her pockets, before fiddling with the doorknob. 

The door swings open, and Philippa disappears inside. She reemerges a minute later with a paper foglio, which she hands to Catherine, her eyes melancholy. On the cover, in clear letters, is the title “Le Morte d’Arthur.” 

“I’ve read it, you know,” says Catherine. “I have my own copy.”

“Just take it.” Philippa’s fingers graze the inside of Catherine’s wrist, and she takes the book from her. On her other side, Francis leans in slightly. 

“A kiss for goodbye?” Philippa asks, and Catherine nods, because she doesn’t trust herself to speak. With one long finger, Philippa pushes her against the alley wall, and then leans in. 

Her lips taste like red wine, and her hair smells like flowers. In a split second, Catherine pictures a world where this could happen again and again and again. And then it’s over, and Philippa steps back, leaving Catherine pressed against the cold bricks with something feverish in her chest. 

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Francis says quietly. Behind his head, up above the crouching roofs of the city, the sun is rising. 

“It was…” Catherine pauses. “...good. Thank you.” 

They walk her back to Holyrood, reciting bits and bobs of poetry from God-knows-where, exchanging riddles as the sky clears and brightens. Past the trees, past the abbey, to the dark little service door Catherine had left through, and there they say goodbye. 

“Catherine,” calls Francis, as she’s about to leave down the hallway.  
She turns. There they are, standing together in the shadows of the building, their eyes dark and their hands intertwined. “Yes?”

“Please write,” says Philippa. 

Catherine nods, once, slow, and then she turns the corner and leaves them behind. 

It isn’t until the journey back to France that she remembers the little book, and opens it to the first page. There, under the title, are two lines of text and a name.

_“The sweetness of love is short-lived, but the pain endures.”_

__

__

_Think of us, sometimes._

_Philippa._

**Author's Note:**

> "It was the kind of kiss that feels like it's going to last for ever. Until it's over." --quote from the Penumbra Podcast which was running through my mind as I wrote this. 
> 
> Philippa pays the poor bookseller back the next day.


End file.
